


"Get that out of my face." "It's not in your face, it's in my hand."

by XansyIsMoi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gay lovin', I really do need help, Jawn, John is a Good Friend, John is very sweet, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Doesn't Do Emotions, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Some Fluff, Some angst, and a sprinkle of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2020-05-19 17:13:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19361200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XansyIsMoi/pseuds/XansyIsMoi
Summary: Sherlock is great at many things- feelings are NOT one of those. Luckily, John is a great friend (and hopefully more)Some fluff, some angst, and lots of love





	1. "A bit."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The Cumberbatch Kids](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=The+Cumberbatch+Kids).



> I think I'll make this a 2-part thing. Dedicated to The Cumberbatch Kids, who gave the prompt. Thanks :)

"You're high."

Sherlock blinks owlishly at John from his position on the floor.

"Whatever do you mean?" 

John glares at him, picking up the syringe on the table he was standing next to. The syringe was empty. John should have expected this- Sherlock has been following cold leads for  _weeks_ now- not that it made the situation any better. "You know what I mean, Sherlock. What is it this time? Cocaine? Ecstasy? How long ago did you take it?"

Sherlock groans and sits up fluidly- somehow, that pissed John off even further. "Relax, John. I know what I'm doing. It's not dangerous."

John's jaw dropped, "Not dang-  _not dangerous?_   Sherlock, ANY amount of a drug is dangerous- that's why they're  _illegal!_ For a genius, you sure are thick!"

"Oh, shut up! I'm only using it to get everything working-"  


"No, you use it because you're addicted-"

"I'm a  _user,_ not an  _addict-_ "

"You're an  __addict, Sherlock, and this is gone far enough-"

By this point, Sherlock is pacing the common room, fingers steepled, while John stood before the kitchen, face red, arms crossed.

"It is NOT AN ADDICTION, JOHN-"

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE- YOU NEED  _HELP,_ JUST-"

"I DO  _NOT_ NEED HELP, I AM PERFECTLY FI-"

John laughs, staring at the ceiling, "NO, YOU ARE  _NOT_ !"

Mrs. Hudson appears in the front door, peering into the room, "Is everything alrig-"

Both men turn towards her, expressions murderous. Mrs. Hudson immediately retreats, muttering about coming back later, they're obviously busy.

John looks back to Sherlock, "Just, talk to someone, pl-"

"No." Sherlock moves to the couch, curling up, his back to John.

"Sherl-"

"No!"

"For fuck's sake, talk to me, then!"  


"Absolutely not-"  


"Why the BLOODY HELL NOT-"

" _BECAUSE I'M IN LOVE WITH YOU!_ "

Sherlock's twisted to glare at John, though he looks suspiciously close to crying. John stares at him for a few moments, dumbstruck.  


"You- You're in love with- with me?"

Sherlock lowers his gaze before curling back up, his back to John once more. He murmurs his answer quietly, sounding smaller than John's ever heard.

"A bit."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: While helping Mr. and Mrs. Holmes move out, Sherlock finds a letter he had written when he was young, stating that he couldn't wait to grow up and move to London so that no one could tell how lonely he was. He shows this to John, and light fluff ensues.
> 
> If you have a prompt or situation you'd like me to write, feel free to drop a comment! I'm happy to write anything you want!
> 
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon that Sherlock's mother calls Sherlock "William" because that's his actual first name and Sherlock is just A Teenage Rebellion Thing™

 

 Sherlock can hear John humming to himself as they shuffle through the room, peering into the old, dusty boxes that contained Sherlock’s barely-existent childhood. He can also hear his parents as they laugh downstairs, moving furniture around, slowly edging towards the front door. Sherlock and John were helping Mr. and Mrs. Holmes move out of Sherlock’s childhood home. It’d been a long time coming, Sherlock thinks. The house is run-down and drafty, much too big for two elderly people without their three children around. Besides, it was time for a new chapter to begin. Sherlock glances over his shoulder at John, who was nose-deep in the books Sherlock had read as a young boy. Suppressing the urge to smile, the taller man crouched down to open a box labeled “Personal” in his own, slightly sloppy handwriting. There wasn’t much in it. The box contained his favorite green sweater vest, his first violin, his favorite book, and a letter. Picking up the old letter in long, elegant fingers, he holds it at eye level. He remembered writing this letter, though it was seen by no one else but him. It was to himself, after all. He’d written it when he was seven, seven and lonely, picked on by Mycroft, misunderstood by his parents. The corners of his mouth pull down into a faint frown. Sherlock gazes at it a moment longer before folding it and tucking it away, right as John wanders over, resting his hand on the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

 

“Your parents are calling it a day- is that your first violin?”

 

Sherlock nods and gingerly picks the violin up out of the box, handing it carefully to John, who looks uncertain. John examines it, but he knows nothing about instruments, so he says, “It’s tiny.”  


John grins when Sherlock laughs, “Yes, I was a great deal smaller then compared to now. I started learning when I was 4.” Sherlock stands, his knees cracking loudly, making his way to the door.

 

“Shall we?”

 

Sherlock starts towards the door, John falling in step behind. Once in the hall and starting down the stairs, John murmurs, “I like your room. Very… Sherlock.” Sherlock stifles a laugh, settling for a small smile.

 

“Considering I was the one living in it, that is to be expected.” A beat, “Thank you, John.”

 

John simply smiles. He’s aware of the fact that Sherlock had a few- if any- friends in his childhood, and likely wasn’t able to show off his room to any. Sherlock was also a very reserved man who didn’t show emotions or anything personal at all, so getting to see something close to Sherlock… John was appreciative, but he wasn’t going to push it. Sherlock was very easy to scare away.

 

John and Sherlock emerge in the common room, where Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were drinking warm cider together, curled up on the one remaining loveseat and smiling at one another. Upon their entrance, Mrs. Holmes watches Sherlock begin to wind his scarf around his neck and pull on his coat. Standing, she speaks in a fond and exasperated tone- the same one John uses often on Sherlock, himself.

 

“William, dear, just stay the night- your bed is still upstairs, and you’ll just be back tomorrow. There’s no use in getting a cab and wasting the money.”  
  
Sherlock pauses, “There’s only one bed, Mother, and two of us.”  
  
Mrs. Holmes just smiles sweetly, “It’s big enough for two, dear.”

 

Sherlock glances to John, who merely shrugs. Sherlock takes off his scarf and coat once more, hanging them back on the hook with care. “If John is alright with it.”

 

As Mrs. Holmes settles back in with her husband, a knowing twinkle in her eye, Sherlock gestures to John to follow him up the stairs. Doing so, Sherlock leads John to his room once more, heading to his closet to find any clothes that would work for nightclothes. John enters the room and closes the door softly, flicking on a dim lamp. Sherlock reappears with a of pajamas, passing them to John.

 

“It might be a little long on you, but it’ll be more comfortable.”

 

John murmurs a soft, “Thank you,” and takes the PJs, waiting until Sherlock disappeared back into the closet to change. When he reemerges, he’s also clothed in pajamas, though they’re a tad short around the ankles and wrists. John notices a folded piece of paper in Sherlock’s left hand, and blinks in surprise when said paper is held out to him. John takes it, glancing up to Sherlock in confusion.

 

“What’s this?”

 

When Sherlock offers no response other than climbing into bed, John unfolds the paper, taking in the slightly sloppy yet elegant writing that he immediately recognizes as Sherlock’s, though it must be from when he was younger. Sparing another glance to Sherlock and getting no reaction back, John begins reading.

 

_Sherlock,_

_I want to grow up. I don’t want to be a child anymore- I want to grow up and move to London, where everything is busy and loud and I could easily be overlooked._

_I don’t want to be lonely anymore._

_I know it’s pathetic. It’s too… emotional. Mycroft would be angry at me for writing this, but it’s true. I don’t have friends- not that I ~~want~~ need friends. Friends are for normal children. I know that I’m ~~a freak~~ not normal. But I think, maybe, just one friend would be nice. It would be less lonely. Ever since Redbeard went missing, I haven’t had anyone. The house is so big, it swallows me whole. It’s silent, it always was, but it’s somehow deafening now without Redbeard._

_So I’ll move to London. I’ll move where it’s loudest, busiest, where no one will be able to hear how lonely I am, where no one will spare me a second glance. The people I meet will think I’m a freak, and they’ll leave me be. No one will know._

_I don’t need friends, just a city loud enough to drown out my loneliness and big enough to hide me away._

_Your best and only friend,_

_SH_

 

John feels his stomach turn, feels something akin to sorrow grip his heart. Glancing back to Sherlock, he starts when he realizes Sherlock is staring right back at him. Gesturing faintly to the letter and speaking around a dry throat, John manages, “How old were you?”

 

“Seven.”

 

John blanches, feeling a wave of _protectprotectkeepsafeloveprotect_ crash over him. Folding the letter back with more care than strictly necessary, John sets it onto the nightstand and settles into bed, feeling the brunet’s eyes on him the entire time. After a beat, John shifts closer, tentatively reaching an arm out and around Sherlock. When met with no resistance, John pulls Sherlock close, tucking brunet hair under his own chin.

 

“Do you still feel this w- do you still feel lonely?”

 

After a few minutes of silence, John sighs softly, about to give up, when,

 

 

 

 

“I never feel alone when I’m with you.”


	3. Where Sherlock plays with Rosie, and is loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love goes both ways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Dakota 😚❤

The sounds of a happy child filtered through the quiet flat, a stark contrast to the bustling city outside. This child, in particular, was a young girl, aged 3 years old. Her name was Rosie Watson, and she was currently seated on Sherlock Holmes' lap. Sherlock Holmes, though often perceived as a cold and unloving man, loved Rosie Watson very much. He loved her father, too. Said father was in the kitchen, watching Sherlock play with his daughter. Holmes was bouncing Rosie up and down gently as she giggled. She explored Sherlock's rather angular face with her small, not-so-angular hands. Rosie patted Holmes' cheeks, forehead, nose- she found his nose quite fascinating, and paused there for a minute, examining it. Her focus was not unlike the detective's. Said detective's lips twitch into a small smile. "That's my nose. It's an instrument, much like my ears, eyes, hands, and tongue. You have these, too, little flower." As if to show her what he means, he sticks out his tongue and widens his eyes. In response to this, Rosie giggles and promptly pokes the man's eye with one short, chubby finger, shrieking with laughter when he recoils and ducks his head to rub his now-watering eye unhappily. Rosie pats the top of Sherlock's head before burying her tiny hands in the mess of dark curls before her, tugging.  
"Joooooooohn, " Sherlock groans,  "Your daughter hates me. She's  _trying_  to hurt me."  
John laughs, moving from his position in the kitchen to scoop Rosie up, covering her face with kisses as she giggles. After he's finished, he settles her on his hip and gazes down at the still-seated detective.  
"That couldn't have hurt, Sherlock, she's as strong as a fly." When Rosie makes grabby hands at Sherlock, John passes her over. Sherlock smiles and murmurs a soft "Hello, my darling flower," as he presses a kiss into her soft hair. John continues casually, taking a seat at the couch, grabbing his laptop on the way,   
"Besides, she couldn't hate you. She's got my blood."  
John looks up in time to see Sherlock's brow furrow as he mouths the words silently. John smiles fondly, letting out a soft sigh.   
"It means she loves you, you idiot. And so do I."  
Sherlock's mouth opens, but no words come out as he blinks owlishly at John. John, however, waits patiently, a kind smile still in place. After a few moments, Sherlock shifts his gaze back down to Rosie, pulling her closer. His voice is impossibly soft, and uncharacteristically full of emotion.   
"I love you both, too."


	4. "You can appreciate the beautiful."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is gonna be two parts, but I don't know when the second part will be out. I've got exams coming up and I'm partaking in two productions. I will try to write when I can, though!  
> For Dakota 😘♥

John is sitting on the park bench, holding down the pages on his book so he doesn't lose his spot. He supposed it doesn't matter, though- he hadn't been reading for the past ten minutes or so. John had been listening.

  
A slow, sad, and slightly eerie melody danced through the air, flowing with the wind that pushed and pulled it away from John's small ears. Obviously a violin- that, John could tell. Even at the age of 13, with no particular interest for music, John could tell it was played by someone who appreciated music, who understood its power and influence, who put themself into every note that filtered through the crisp autumn air. It was almost enchanting. Less enchanting, however, was the screech of a bow pushed much too hard, much too fast against strings. John starts, flinching harshly against the assault on his ears, whipping around to see what had happened. Across the previously peaceful park, under one of the dying trees, a small brunette boy was shoved to the ground. He flings his hands out to catch himself, and in doing so, drops his tiny violin and bow. John blinks, shocked at how young this boy was. He was the one playing? He looks like he would snap like a twig. Speaking of how fragile he looked, John stands, zeroing in on the older kids surrounding the fallen child, laughing at him. The tallest- the leader, John supposed- bends down and picks up the child's violin, examining it. The child holds up a hand, palm out- 'Stop.' John could only catch bits and pieces of what the group was saying, things like "freak," and " little weirdo," and "fucking pansy." The boy scrambles up, and the leader holds the violin over the child's head, just out of reach. John's vision begins to creep with red, and his heart beats just a little harder. He begins to approach, calling out to the group, "Oi!". The child jumps for the instrument, fingertips just brushing it before the leader snatched it away, laughing. John quickens his step, calling out, "Hey, knock it off!" The leader, deaf to John, backs away from the group, smirking. Closer now, John heard what he said next clearly, "Hold 'im."

  
Two bullies grab hold of the small boy, holding him in place as the leader approaches the tree they'd all been standing under. Smirking once more at the child, the leader grabs the neck of the violin with both hands, holds it over his shoulder like a bat, and swings it at the trunk of the tree. John freezes, eyes wide as the body of the violin cracks, splinters, and finally splits. The child struggles, letting out a wail as he watches the older boy destroy his instrument. 

  
John startles out of his trance, and he's running, vision going red as the leader drops the broken violin to the ground. The leader barely has time to put his hands up before he's tackled to the ground, and John's pummeling him, unaware of anything but the feeling of his fists connecting with the bully's face, over and over again. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thanks his father for pressuring him into playing rugby. Now there's someone pulling him back- there's people pulling him back, and he goes. Steps back, breathing heavy, and watches the older boy stagger up and run, his minions following closely. Once John is certain that they're not coming back, he turns to the little boy, who's sitting on the ground by the tree, holding the broken instrument in his lap, blue eyes watery. It's mostly shattered, the two biggest pieces- broken body and neck- held together with the miraculously intact strings. Splinters and pieces of wood lay scattered around the small boy. John approaches him, crouching down beside him. He places a gentle hand on the small child's shoulder, wincing when the boy flinches, but he keeps his hand in place. The boy sniffles, stating simply, "It's broken." John frowns, nodding. This kid was at least a few years younger than John, judging from his size and voice. John nods again, "Are you alright?" The boy shrugs with one shoulder. "I'm coping."

  
John blinks, taken slightly aback. He'd expecting something like "I'm okay," or "I'm sad,'' 'coping' seemed like... and odd choice of words for a boy that age. John glanced at the boy, checking him over. Noticing a few scrapes and bruises, he stands, offering a hand to the boy, helping him up. The boy thanks him quietly before moving away to pick up his bow. John crouches again, picking up as many pieces as he could before joining the small boy. The child looks up, and John is taken aback once more. It was as if the child's icy eyes saw straight through him, down to his soul. Clearing his throat, John raises an eyebrow. "Let's get you home, yeah?" The boy nods and begins trudging off, cradling his bow and broken violin to his chest. John follows quitely, still holding the pieces of violin from the ground.

  
 They walk for awhile, almost ten minutes, before John speaks, "Have they done this before? To you?" He glances down at the boy, who shrugs, expression somber, "Yes. So have others. Because I'm different," he shrugs again, "because I'm a freak." John steps up a little faster, steps in front of the boy and stops, crouching. The boy stops abruptly, looking shocked. John stares up into his eyes, willing him to believe, "You are not a freak. Even if you are different, different is good. They're bullies, they're scared of different. They're all the same. They don't know how to appreciate all the different, wonderful things in this world. But you do- I can tell. I heard you playing earlier, and I know that you can appreciate the beautiful." The boy's eyes begin to water once more, and John gathers him into an awkward hug. After only a moment or two, John pulls away, standing once more and stepping out of the way to allow the boy to lead again. John follows the boy silently for another ten minutes or so until they start up a gravel path. He looks up and sees a sizeable stone house, creeping with moss and vines. John's jaw almost drops. This child's family was obviously rich. As they approach the door, it opens, and John stops. A woman rushed out, sweeping the boy up.

  
 "William! Where have you been- and why are you all dirty? And- oh, my dear, what happened to your violin? Oh, dear-" This is when the woman notices John, and stands, her mouth twisting when she sees the broken pieces cradled in his hands. John speaks first, "Some kids were pushing him around, miss, and they broke his violin. I didn't reach them in time." He pauses, glancing down, "Sorry." John hears her click her tongue, and feels his heart sink with guilt. He looks up in surprise when she speaks next, however, "Your hands are bloody, dear. Let's get you both inside and cleaned up, and then we'll get you something to eat." She turns on her heel and moved inside, followed by the boy, who throws a glance over his shoulder. John follows.  
It's a few hours before John leaves the stone house, knuckles bandaged and stomach full. He turns to face the mother and her son, words of gratitude on his lips, but he's interrupted when she holds up a hand.

  
 "You helped my William. It's only fair that we repay the favor. So, thank you." John nods and murmurs a "Of course, miss," before he's turning to leave once more. However, he's interrupted again when the little boy shouts "Wait!" and dashes off into the house, reappearing a minute later, presenting the broken violin to John. John looks at it, confused, while the woman reprimands the boy, "William, what is he going to do with a broken violin?" The boy stares up at John, blue eyes piercing, and simply says, "You can appreciate the beautiful, too. Even if the beautiful is broken." John is silent for a few moments before he takes the violin. He doesn't know what to say, how to respond to something so profound- so touching, really. This child thinks that he is worthy of the beautiful.

  
So John smiles, takes the violin, and nods, "Thank you." The boy smiles brightly. John remembers that smile and the words that came with it on his walk home, through school, through the military, and even as he's sitting in his flat, pretending to read, but really listening to Sherlock play a slow, sad, and slightly eerie melody.

  
Yeah, John can appreciate the beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't guessed already, or just don't know- the boy (William) is, in fact, Sherlock. John, however, does NOT know this. :)  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
